What A Prince And Lover Ought To Be
by define-serenity
Summary: [Sebastian/Blaine] Sebastian's forced to marry Blaine for the betterment of the kingdom. It's a marriage of convenience that neither of them agreed to, but they'll have to make the most of it. SERIES. COMPLETE.
1. Part One

**disclaimer:** without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

**characters/pairings:** Sebastian/Blaine, Quinn, Santana, Sebastian's mother

**author's** **notes:** written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: **arranged marriage**. i'm not generally in the habit of posting WIPs, but i wanted to get something posted closer to this Sunday than the next. i promise i'm working on the next parts! inspired by the mini series _Kings_, hence the story reads as set in modern times. title taken from _Two Princes_ by Spin Doctors.

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**WHAT A PRINCE AND LOVER OUGHT TO BE;;**

**chapter one**

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Temperatures barely reach the high eighties that summer, a breeze rocking the leaves in the trees along Union Street. A car travels incognito towards Unity Hall, where the King confers with his Court and Parliament convenes to discuss matters of legislation. Inside the car sits Duke Landon Anderson, palms sweaty and heart racing a million miles an hour, set to meet with the monarch upon his arrival.

It isn't his proudest hour, he has only ever begged another man once before in his life, but this must be done. If he wishes to save his family from ruin, hold onto the wealth his own father worked so hard to garner, compromises must be made.

When met with the King and Queen, he begs for their favor–their borders have been under siege for months and he has run out of men to defend them. He fears for his family and his vassals should the enemy troops invade, for the trade routes running to and from the kingdom.

The King, realizing the Anderson duchy provides 20% of his kingdom's grain supply and the fruit for his beloved wine, agrees to a union between the lands. The Queen, arguably as powerful as her husband, inquires about his children, for a wedding could greatly solidify the bonds between their lands, not to mention distract the people from the devastation of war. The Duke answers his oldest son married years ago, and his youngest son, well, _his preferences lie elsewhere_.

This makes the Queen smile contently, and a wordless conversation transpires between King and Queen, for the Queen, too, has a son she had almost abandoned all hope for.

Because everyone in the Kingdom knows his name.

Sebastian Smythe.

The Party Prince.

.

War had reigned between the lands for as long as he can remember. They lay divided, small kingdoms bordered modest manors, which were divided into demesnes and dependent farmlands. Each battled for something, for the rights to their lands, more land and its natural resources, dominance, and none were exempt the violence and savagery that ensued.

Growing up at Court of one of these kingdoms Sebastian heard stories of brave soldiers leaving behind home and hearth and trekking towards the borders to defend their country, to fight in name of their king. Those men fascinated him, kept him up at night while he imagined man fighting the other, each with their own beliefs, but it's those beliefs that drove them. He often dreamed of going to war once he was old enough to join up.

His own father left for the beginnings of the war not long after he was born, serving under King Clarington, but lost his life two years in. He'd never met his father, but his mind painted him as a hero, brave and honorable, unafraid in the heat of battle.

As his father's closest friend and confidant, and a recent widower himself, the King soon married his mother, and adopted him as his own son so the rest of the Court would consider him equal to the King's true heir, Hunter. His mother became Queen and he became a prince, and it's all the life he's ever known.

He had his duties, banquets and public appearances, fancy parties and his sister's ballet recitals, he was expected by his father's side during inaugurations of ministers and church services. He started his military training at sixteen so he might join the war effort when he came of age, and in the public eye he acted the dutiful son. He had no complaints, he lived a privileged life while plenty of people lived in discontent, he had money and standing, and access to everything and everyone.

Unfortunately his mother loathed his single status and often scolded him for his less-than-subtle transgressions with boys when he went out partying. Because he didn't half-ass anything, when he partied he partied hard; alcohol, sex and drugs, and he'd featured in the gossip columns more than he could count. So it shouldn't have been a surprise, then, that she attempted to set him up the first chance she got.

She breaks the news to him the way she does everything: cordial and warm, but a firmness to her tone that signalled arguing with her would be futile; she made up her mind and he would do well to follow her commands.

Maybe deep down he knew this day would come, his lifestyle put him in the spotlight too much and if there was anything his mother hated it was bad press she couldn't bribe out of the papers–and when a Duke with a suitable match so conveniently showed up on their doorstep, well, who was she to say no?

"He's good-looking," his mother says, scanning over the pictures she'd caught him staring at on his computer. "Very photogenic."

"He's a saint." He slumps back in his chair, everything he's read about Blaine Anderson so far nothing but positive and charitable and almost too ridiculous to be true. "He gives to charity, volunteers at homeless shelters, _reads to sick children_?"

"It's for show, Sebastian." His mother squeezes his shoulders, hands smoothing down his arms before she kisses his hair. "You say 'I do', your father signs the contract and you consummate your marriage. You don't even have to go that far."

He blinks. "You and dad–"

"We developed a love and appreciation for each other," his mother answers. "Your father had his mistresses when he was younger. I had my lovers." She squeezes his shoulders once to emphasize what she's about to add, which means he better hear this clearer than anything else: "_But discreetly_."

She leaves the room and it goes quiet all around, her footsteps dying out down the hallway. He stares at an inanimate Blaine Anderson on his laptop screen, _good-looking_ as his mother already pointed out, but good looks didn't guarantee an interested party.

He can hardly imagine Blaine's chomping at the bit to marry him.

.

Quinn Fabray, one of his mother's junior assistants, stands guard outside of Blaine's guest quarters–she's been showing him around and steering him clear of running into his future-to-be, so that the two of them won't meet until the day of the wedding. The rules were implemented decades ago when his great-grandfather rejected his bride at the first sight of her, and to avoid any future mishaps. Even though the advent of modern technology made it near impossible not to find information, the Court stood on ceremony and tradition, and the likelihood of him seeing Blaine before the wedding was slim.

But in his world rules were meant to be broken.

"Miss Fabray." He approaches the beautiful blonde with a smile–she visibly braces herself by straightening her shoulders, having dealt with his antics on more than one occasion. He's tried seducing her quite a few times as well, but had only been met with staunch rejection. "Might I have a moment with my betrothed?"

"You know the rules, sir," Quinn says, eyes darkening. "Not until the wedding."

"Quinn," comes his mother's voice, and it's truly remarkable how quickly Quinn schools her expression–no one goes against the Queen's wishes. Even he would scarce cross his mother. Quinn moves aside to let him pass and soon he pushes through the door to Blaine's temporary accommodations–an entire wing of the Royal Residence has been cleared for him and Blaine to move into after the wedding.

Blaine's being fitted for his tuxedo by one of the finest tailors in the country, preoccupied with studying his own reflection in one of the three mirrors surrounding him.

Both men glance up into the mirror upon his entering the room, Blaine breathing a hushed, "Sebastian," before he whirls around and steps off the stool the tailor had him stand on. Blaine stares at him the same way others do, in awe and with a tinge of fear. "I'm sorry," Blaine mutters, and greets him with a bow of his head.

He smiles and strides a few steps forward, while the tailor backs away from them. He reaches out a hand and curls his fingers under Blaine's chin. "You don't have to bow anymore, Blaine," he says. Blaine lifts his head again, blinking, and smiles nervously, a welcome sign that he's capable of loosening up. The hazel eyes that greet him are big and beautiful and easily compete with Quinn's. "That's better."

He smooths his thumb down Blaine's jaw line, feels him shiver at the touch, but he doesn't move an inch. Now that he's faced with the boy he's meant to marry _for the good of the kingdom_, he realizes they're in this together, they're both being forced into a union without knowing a thing about each other–and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't relieved to get paired with a guy like Blaine Anderson. His pictures hadn't done him much justice; short curly hair and dark eyes, full lips that were made for doing all kinds of scandalous things, kissable collarbone revealed by the few buttons popped on his shirt, built a few inches shorter than him.

"We're not supposed to see each other before the wedding," Blaine says, eyes downcast, a soft blush coloring his cheekbones. "It's bad luck."

He grins. "I make my own luck."

Blaine looks up, but chooses not to comment.

"I'll let you get back to your grooming."

"Thank you, sir."

"You're too polite, Blaine." He chuckles softly, enamored rather than expectant of Blaine's impeccable manners. "It's Sebastian." He makes his way towards the door, turning one last time to add, "But if you ever call me 'love', 'honey' or 'sweetheart' I'll have you shot."

Shock freezes Blaine on the spot, confusion flashing through his eyes. He clucks his tongue, drawing a thumb over his bottom lip, highly amused by Blaine's reaction; he could get used to this innocent schoolboy thing.

"Blaine, relax," he says, hopefully soothing some of Blaine's reservations. "Soon all this will be yours too and there'll be nothing you need to worry about."

.

They get married in the largest Cathedral in the country's capital, paraded out in front of the news outlets, photographers and journalists covering the event, crowds roaring and fighting to the front for a peek at the royals.

The wedding celebration has the effect his mother intended–in a time of great turmoil the people often looked to the monarchy for answers or distractions, so the feast matches his own mother's wedding in grandeur, or so he's told. They pull out all the stops, the servants move like a trained army, distance between plates and glasses measured to the millimeter, extravagant flower arrangements and rose petals falling down the streets like rain.

Despite his experience with being in the spotlight he finds himself nervous, his skin crawls in anticipation of taking his vows, of binding himself to one person for the rest of his life, as far as the public's concerned. It's almost reassuring to see Blaine nervous too, rolling his shoulders more than once throughout the day, eyes skipping to faces he either recognizes or attempts to memorize, a small twitch to a corner of his mouth every now and then.

Blaine looks stunning in his tuxedo, tailored to fit, a bowtie that matches his own, and a smile that could light up the room. They've both been coached on what to do and what to say, but he admires Blaine's apparent ease–maybe he'd been prepared for this, or maybe he's that good an actor, either way he's impressed.

When their lips meet in a chaste kiss to seal their Sacrament and Blaine beams up at him as the cameras start flashing, he only sees a boy who's committing himself to this in earnest.

It would be a shame to not at least attempt to do the same.

.

The festivities last well into the night, and by the end of it he and Blaine must have been photographed from angles not even he could've thought up. Every minute of the day has been logged and written down, caught on camera and video phones, and he's suddenly grateful he doesn't live every second of his life under a magnifying glass. Even though it comes pretty close. Blaine took it all in stride, smiled at all the right times, polite to everyone who introduced themselves, by his side all day and all night.

And their night isn't over.

"You're stuck with me now, Anderson," he jokes as they make their way to the left wing of the residence, their new quarters ready and waiting for them. They're alone for the first time since Blaine came to the kingdom and he intends to make the most of it. He can't wait to see what hides beneath all his layers.

Blaine takes his hand and laces their fingers together. "There are worse people to be stuck with," he smiles, pushing through the doors of their bedroom. It's a modest room compared to his mother's lavish tastes, there's a large four-poster bed flanked by two large windows that reach from floor to ceiling, the room bathed in deep oaks and red colors.

"Do you like it?" he asks, peeling Blaine's jacket off his shoulders and tossing it over a nearby chair.

"I–" Blaine stutters, while he removes both their bowties as well. "Y-yes."

"Relax," he whispers low in Blaine's ear, and starts massaging at his shoulders, the tension leaving him little by little. Blaine turns around and reaches up a hesitant hand, curling around his neck. He doesn't waste any time; his lips find Blaine's like they had at the cathedral but their lips part simultaneously this time. He breathes into Blaine's mouth, tongue flicking against his lips as he backs them up towards the bed, Blaine's back hitting one of the bed posts.

"Sebastian–" Blaine whispers, still tense, but his hands roam over his body and he hisses a shiver when his lips venture down his neck, teeth scraping at his throat. "Hmm," Blaine hums, practically buzzing now, and shivers as he starts unbuttoning his shirt, his skin flushed beneath the white fabric.

"Sebastian, wait," Blaine hushes, eyes half-lidded.

He looks at Blaine, exposed and vulnerable. "Could you be–" he swallows hard, something almost wounded touching his eyes, "–gentle?"

He freezes and pulls back, searching Blaine's eyes for answers. Of course he can be gentle, he's not an animal, even if his reputation as a party boy might have suggested he liked it a little rougher from time to time. But why would Blaine assume he'd just have his way and not consider his pace?

The realization hits him square in the chest. "You're a virgin," he says, and doesn't need it confirmed by an almost imperceptible nod from Blaine. He takes a step back, reeling at the realization that Blaine has pledged himself to him completely, body and soul, and– If he'd known he would've handled this differently, he would've slowed down. "Shit, Blaine, I didn't know."

Blaine casts down his eyes. "We can't all be the most desired guy in the kingdom."

"I thought you–"

"We were both forced into this."

"I know, I meant–" He takes a deep breath, the silence stifling.

"You thought I'd want you," Blaine offers. "Like every other boy or girl who you've taken to bed." Blaine buttons up his shirt again as his hands shake and tears fill his eyes. "Yeah, you're hot, I won't deny that, but–"

"Why did you go along?" he asks, because Blaine had been open and receptive all day, he'd smiled and touched and kissed him, taken his hand. And he'd been fully willing to go to bed with him without revealing he'd never done so before.

Blaine frowns through his distress. "Because it's expected of me."

"Blaine, you're a prince now," he says, louder than he intended. "You're not my servant or my lover. We're equals," he presses. Blaine stares at him like no one's ever spoken to him like this before, like he's never had an equal and doesn't know how to account for one in a new relationship. How can he even think about having this boy right now, hurt and lonely, miles away from home, launched into a life he didn't choose.

"I won't make you if you're not ready."

Blaine wipes at his face. "Thank you."

He releases a breath, but doesn't know what else to say to put Blaine at ease. So he makes his way into the bathroom for a shower, snakes a hand around his hard-on and finishes himself off in a few long strokes, hoping fiercely that Blaine doesn't hear him.

Blaine's already in bed by the time he steps back into the bedroom, curled up under the sheets with his back turned to him.

He doesn't sleep, and neither does Blaine, their breathing erratic all through the night.

.

Of course, when he told Blaine _I won't make you if you're not ready_, he'd rather hoped there would come a time when Blaine would be ready. He'd agreed to this marriage because it was his duty and because despite the forced match he'd still get laid on a regular basis, however shallow that made him sound. But Blaine never so much as touches him.

They have breakfast with his mother, Hunter and their sister Marley every morning, his mother's attempt at involving Blaine in the conversation a futile one–Blaine will say one or two words, usually agreeing with his mother, and fall silent once more. At lunch, he sits with his father and his dignitaries and has no idea what Blaine gets up to, because when they have dinner, just the two of them per his mother's arrangement, Blaine has little or nothing to say.

He understands it's all new to Blaine, this life, this house, their marriage, but nothing in that boy loosens up, not with time, not with words, not even with Quinn's gentle coaxing. And he never learned how to do this either, be in the kind of relationship they're meant to be in, how to talk to someone so they could earn each other's trust and affection.

So the days go by, silent mornings fade into awkward attempts at small talk at the dinner table, and the only other interaction that follows is a "Good night," before one of them goes to bed.

Most nights, Blaine doesn't sleep. For a time he's convinced Blaine didn't need sleep because he caught his uneven breathing in his own moments of wakefulness. But sometimes, towards early morning, he'd catch Blaine with his eyes closed, breathing serenely and unguarded for what seems like the first time in ages.

And he can't help but wonder what his prince dreams about.

.

Two weeks pass and nothing changes, much to the detriment of his mood, the servants, and his personal assistant, Santana Lopez. According to her he's barely tolerable on his best days, and his mood keeps sinking the longer Blaine keeps hiding behind his walls, pulls away every time he tries to move a little closer.

"_What_ am I supposed to do?" he shouts, dragging a hand back and forth through his hair, scaring the servants out of the room. "_I am trying_, but I can't keep jerking off in the shower every night."

"Your needs can be seen to, sir," Santana answers, eyeing him in such a way that makes him feel it even more. He has needs beyond the drugs and alcohol, he likes to go out and have a good time, throw his royal status off his shoulders and forget who he is in the arms of an all too willing participant–maybe he doesn't even want Blaine, he'd only remind him of his title, but he'd tried to be respectful as his mother had requested. _They were married_, for God's sake, and Blaine couldn't so much as give him the light of day.

He sighs. "Forget it."

.

A few days later he's called away for a field training exercise with his platoon, and he spends the better part of a week getting his mind off things. His platoon bests the others without breaking a sweat and the whole camp throws them a party at the end of training. There's booze and music and female entertainment for those interested, and he's none too shy to dance with any of them.

He drinks more than he should, but then so do all his fellow soldiers, and finds his way into another recruit's tent at the end of the night, not for the first time since he started his training almost two years ago. His security team stands guard outside, while inside a hot mouth sinks down around his cock, a heat he's longed for curling down his spine, a steady pressure building up in his groin as the blond bobs his head up and down, sucking hard and long around the head of his cock.

"Stop," he commands, and sits up, tastes himself in the other man's mouth, his tongue exploring for long agonizing minutes. Soon he has the other begging on his hands and knees, spreads him open with his fingers before driving his cock inside, their sweat-covered bodies sliding together fast, then slow, before he picks up a faster rhythm again. He takes his sweet time, relishing in the feel of a warm body willingly moving with his.

"Aren't you supposed to be lovingly married?" Jeff asks much later, pushing a kiss to his shoulder before stealing the joint from between his lips.

"I am," –he breathes out a cloud of smoke– "as far as anyone's concerned."

.

He comes home in the middle of the night the next day, much earlier than planned. Blaine's already in bed, sleeping for a change, and he's sore in too many places not to join him. He changes into a pair of slacks and pulls back the covers, Blaine jerking violently.

"Sorry," he whispers, sliding slowly underneath the sheets, and receives no further complaints. He lies back, closing his eyes, until the bed shakes with another jerk of Blaine's body. Whatever's going on, he's not the cause of it. He looks to his right, Blaine's sleeping form a dark heap barely visible in the moonlight seeping in through the windows, but Blaine's head tosses and turns in his pillow.

"No," Blaine whines, curling tighter into himself, and he realizes only then that Blaine's still asleep. "Rachel," Blaine cries, and something clenches in his chest at the childlike helpless sound.

He turns and scoots closer to Blaine, drawn towards the scared boy in his bed–is this why Blaine fails to sleep so many nights? Does he wish to avoid whatever monsters live in his dreams? He carefully places a hand on Blaine's shoulder, sliding it down the length of his arm to gauge his reaction, but Blaine seems to relax.

"Rachel, no," Blaine whimpers, just as he slips an arm around Blaine's waist, curling his body around the shorter boy's. Blaine feels warm and sweaty, but he pushes back into his body, which gives him all the more reason to stay put. It takes several minutes, but eventually his breathing evens out, and he doesn't make a fuss for the rest of the night.

His own dreams are plagued with naked bodies of boys that bring him no release, that leave him empty and cold inside, every kiss tastes like ashes, every touch coarse against his skin.

When he wakes in the morning Blaine's no longer in his arms, but sitting at the edge of the bed.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, rubbing at his eyes.

"You didn't have to do that," comes the only reply, soft, vulnerable, but grateful.

He leans up on an elbow, tempted to run his fingers down Blaine's spine. "Talk to me," he asks instead.

Blaine takes a deep breath and releases it again. "Thank you for what you did," he says softly, but gets up and disappears into the bathroom without saying anything more.

.

Nothing much changes, if anything Blaine tries harder to hide his nightmares, often sneaking out of their bedroom to sleep somewhere else, or to forego sleep altogether.

.

From then on _his needs_ are seen to discreetly. He's snuck out of the residence by his closest trustees, a handful of people his mother and father agreed would answer to him alone and keep his secrets at all costs, and delivered him to a private flat he often used for his casual affairs.

He no longer goes out partying, but the boys are brought to him. They're caught on camera by his staff, where they state their names and swear they're there willingly, and find their way into his bed, where he ravages them, sometimes several times, searches for intimacy where there's none to be found.

It loses its appeal, his lifestyle was never about sneaking around and doing things he wasn't supposed to, he never got off on deceit or sticking it to the established order. It was only ever about shucking off his title, being someone else for a change because being a prince took a terrible toll.

.

He and Blaine only ever act the happy couple at public events. They hold hands and share smiles, feign happiness like they've been doing it for years, and he's still impressed by Blaine's acting skills. Looking at him during his parents' fifteenth wedding anniversary even he could be fooled into thinking they have a happy marriage, that they kiss each other good morning and goodnight, that they actually communicate on a regular basis and know each other intimately.

Blaine adjusts his tie whenever there are cameras watching, smooths a hand down his chest and grabs for his hand when the King narrates a beautiful speech about lasting love and trust. They share a kiss outside and the entire country cheers, their two princes the pinnacle of young love that will grow into something deeper.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

As soon as the limousine leaves the press' line of sight the pleasantries end, Blaine stares out of the window for the rest of the drive and doesn't talk to him. The same silence reigns as they make their way to their quarters and enter the bedroom, where Blaine starts stripping out of his suit.

And he loses it.

"What is your problem?"

Blaine blinks. "My problem?"

"You were all over me all night and now–"

"Jesus Christ, Sebastian, you really are clueless, aren't you?" Blaine says. "You spend most of your nights in someone else's bed, you haven't even taken the time to learn anything about me, and you expect me to what? Spread my legs and beg you to take me?"

"That's not fair. I tried, Blaine, but you–" He takes a deep breath, aware that his meaning got misconstrued–he has no intention of coaxing Blaine into his bed, he's accepted that as something Blaine can't give him for whatever reason and he would never take that unless Blaine wanted him to, but Blaine won't budge, won't give him an inch of breathing room to even try and get closer. He knows nothing about Blaine beyond what his Google search had provided, and Blaine hasn't made any attempt to change that. Blaine's as much to blame in all this as he is.

"You agreed to marry me," he says, hands balling into fists, anger constricting his lungs.

"I didn't have a choice!" Blaine shouts. "It was marrying you or condemning my family. That's not a choice, Sebastian, that's–" Blaine takes a breath and turns his back on him, reluctant to speak his own mind too blatantly.

"A life sentence," he provides, because that's how it feels now, like he drags a ball and chains around with him wherever he goes, a constant reminder than the life he had was out of his reach forever.

"That's one way of putting it."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Blaine sighs. "We both did what we had to do. We have to make the best of it."

"How?" he asks.

Blaine twists on his heels in one smooth move like he asked the strangest question known to man. And Blaine must see, he's not blind to his pain, he understands that he struggles with this new life and his nightmares on top of that, he realizes he might not be the man Blaine expected, but this is all the man he knows how to be.

"You're not happy."

He moves a step closer, but watches Blaine retreat back behind his walls, his eyes averted once more. "You hardly sleep and when you do? You have nightmares that scare the crap out of me."

Blaine shakes his head. "Those have nothing to do with you."

That's all Blaine says, all he ever learns–_he's not at fault_, _he gets to take what he wants_, he committed to a sham of a marriage and a boy who refuses to be with him.

.

He falls back into old habits. If Blaine refuses to follow his own advice in getting to know him better he doesn't see why he should be the one to put in all the effort. He brings the parties to him rather than seek them out, he goes back to his drugs and alcohol and sloppy but satisfying hook-ups at the end of the night, taking guys to bed whose names only the camera learns, but there's worship in their fingertips, care in their kisses and an awe in the desire they share he craves above all else.

Blaine knows, sees him stumble into bed in the early morning hours often enough to put two and two together, smells the alcohol and sex on him because he can't bother to shower until he's slept off his hangover. Blaine never says anything, in fact he seems content that they no longer have to spend their nights in the same bed or avoid seeing each other at the breakfast table. And he often skips dinner to get an early start.

It's like they have the unspoken agreement that this can be their relationship for the foreseeable future. They were both forced into this and tried to make the best of it, so if Blaine craved solitude and he wanted his needs sated, then, well, this would do. To the outside world they were the happy newlyweds whose union brought a new prosperity to the kingdom, and indoors they were two people, living their lives, separately.

.

It almost stood to reason that after four months of this, he'd be the one to mess it all up.

They sneak into the residence through one of the servants' entrances, falling over their own feet, fingers loose to lips, hushing, "Shhh," as they stumbled their way to the left wing of the house. His partner-in-crime, James, or Jamal, whatever, sways against his body, their blood alcohol content dangerously high because his vision has blurred, and yet he'd managed to shake off his security detail.

He's not sure what he hoped to accomplish, but the idea of getting off in one of the other bedrooms of his new abode while _his faithful husband_ lay sleeping in their shared bedroom seemed kind of hot. He'd have to keep Jamie, Jack, who knew, quiet, a hand over his mouth while he pounded into him, his own moans held back at the back of his throat, straining, wanting, anticipating getting caught at any second.

But they never make it into any bedroom.

Considering the amount of times Blaine had failed to sleep in their bedroom, he could've guessed he'd still be up, but he hadn't counted on finding him in the salon, reading quietly under soft guard of a single night light.

"Sebastian?" Blaine startles as he trips into the parlor, hand locked firmly in, _Jacques'_?

"Hello, love." His partner giggles and he barely holds back laughter. "Don't mind us, we're just looking for a quiet place to do our thing."

For a moment or two he's invincible, he's convinced Blaine will accept this as part of their agreement and quietly retreat for the night. What he hadn't expected was the anger that flares in Blaine's eyes, pure unadulterated anger and disappointment he'd only ever seen in his parents' eyes before. And it turns his blood into ice.

"Guards!" Blaine calls, and shoots up from the sofa, two guards soon filing into the room behind him. Blaine points at his date. "Get him out of here."

"Belay that order!" He raises a finger at Blaine, unstable on his feet. "You don't have that authority."

"Yes, he does," an all too familiar voice sounds. He releases a shaky breath and turns around, face-to-face with the woman who'd made him swear to act discreetly. His mother smiles at the two guards, "Make sure this young man gets home safe," she says, and nods at Blaine.

His breathing deepens realizing the depth of his transgression. It was one thing to tempt Blaine's wrath, he had no idea how the boy would react to this, but his mother would not let this go. One way or the other, he was in bigger trouble than he'd ever been, and he didn't dare to think about what his punishment might be.

"I see you made friends with my mother," he says, voice shaking around a new kind of fear.

"She knows what it's been like for me."

He turns to face Blaine, his husband, who just witnessed exactly what depravity he's capable off. "What do you want me to do, Blaine?" he asks, utterly defeated. "I'm not like you, I don't do celibacy."

How Blaine remains so calm he can only guess, but when he speaks again his words come slow and calculated, laced with a defeat similar to the one he's experiencing. "I'm not asking you to," he says. "Sleep with whoever you want. But not under this roof."

"I don't get told what to do." He grits his teeth together, a rebellious streak he never learned to control. "I'm a prince."

"So am I," Blaine retorts. "I'm your husband. And I deserve your respect."

Yes, he thinks, Blaine does deserve his respect, though at times he wishes Blaine would throw his manners out the window, shout at him just so he could get a peek inside and ascertain what he wants.

Blaine leaves the room, and he drops into the sofa, left utterly alone. Again.

* * *

#

**if you can, please let me know what you think?**


	2. Part Two

**disclaimer:** without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

**characters/pairings:** Sebastian/Blaine, Sebastian/Adam, Sebastian's mother, mention of Sam, Quinn, Santana, Marley, Hunter

**author's** **notes:** written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: arranged marriage. good grief, this is one chapter that refused to be written for the longest time! anyway, new installment, working on the last one : )

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**WHAT A PRINCE AND LOVER OUGHT TO BE;;**

**chapter two**

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Winter drags on longer than anyone anticipated, thick layers of snow blanketing solid frozen ground, a harsh backdrop to lands in conflict, a country crying outrage, his morality in question. His punishment comes in the form of judgment, his fall deeper than even he had anticipated. Somehow the media had learned of his evening of debauchery with a boy whose name he can't even remember, his picture on the front page of every newspaper and the day after it happened the story dominated the news.

The Crown's treasury usually manages to keep stories like these out of the press, but that soon proves his mother's punishment. Facing his mistakes had never been a virtue of his, nor is it now with the entire kingdom watching, but his mother forces it on him.

"I have _never_ been so ashamed to call you my son," she cries, tossing the newspaper in his lap like a piece of garbage, one large unflattering picture staring back at him. There's a smaller picture of him and Blaine in a corner of the page, photoshopped with a jagged line running between them. A clever title reads 'Party Prince Strikes Again', subtitled with 'Royal Honeymoon Over'.

He holed himself up in his study when he learned of the public outcry at breakfast, missed lunch and didn't plan on leaving any time soon. This would never let up; he'd never be able to face his mother or Blaine, or any of his family, their judgment so much harder to bear, even though his past record had often seen it ignored.

"Your father won't even talk about it." His mother throws up her arms, despair instructing her erratic movement around the room. "You are a disgrace to the Clarington name."

He sags deeper in his chair, the ice cubes in his bourbon clinking against the glass. "Good thing I'm not a Clarington then," he mumbles, staring down into his half-filled glass.

"Don't take that tone with me, Sebastian." His mother's eyes leave burn marks all over his body. "You have a husband who the entire country adores, who's helped clear your reputation, who's been nothing but–"

"Cold?" he supplies, because he'll be damned if all the blame gets laid on his inability to bind himself to Blaine. Blaine hasn't tried to connect, hasn't talked to him, barely even looks at him. He wonders if Blaine sees him at all. "Distant? Closed off?"

"Is that what this is about?" his mother scoffs. "Because he won't sleep with you?"

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reluctant to tempt fate any further–his mother's already upset with him, and so is the King, he should accept he can't change the past and move on. His heart rate slows down and he regains control of his breathing. "Because he won't talk to me. I don't know anything about him."

"Try harder," his mother stresses and points at the newspaper. "Fix this, Sebastian."

"How?"

His mother touches her fingers to his cheek, thumb venturing a few quick strokes. She's mad at him, but she's still his mother–she'd forgive a great many trespasses before he lost her favor for good. "I raised you to be a resourceful young man, sweetheart," she says, and kisses his hair. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

He slams back a big gulp of bourbon as his mother's footsteps die out in the distance, the liquor a burn down his throat that makes him acutely aware of his surroundings. It's cowardly, hiding like this, shutting the world out like a child covering its ears when it doesn't want to hear the truth spelled out. He thought himself numb to these sensations a long time ago, but his mother was right: this time, he screwed up beyond belief.

Everyone loved Blaine, the country, the Court, the King, his mother. He brought the promise of peace, a symbol of non-hostile unification, and he did so with the brightest smile of all, charisma and poise, no questions asked. The people's favor was something fragile and precarious, easily lost at the wrong move.

There has to be something he can do. There must be.

The footsteps behind him fall so softly he doesn't notice Blaine until he's standing by his side, a tray of food clutched between both hands. "I thought you might want some food." Blaine places the tray on his desk before rolling his shoulders and taking a step back, hands in his pockets.

"Thanks," he answers automatically, even though the thought that he makes Blaine even more uncomfortable weighs heavy on him. They might not have any sort of relationship, but at least Blaine hadn't skulked his duty to the kingdom–more than he can say about himself.

Yet of all the people in his life, his mother and father, his brother and sister, Santana, Quinn, any of his personal guards, Blaine's the one who asks, "Are you okay?"

No one had reason to ask, he messed up, he got drunk and picked up a guy and consciously brought him back to the Royal Residence, he spoke to Blaine in harsh tones, disregarded a respect that should be mutual but only Blaine had shown. So Blaine shouldn't be the one asking. Shame rips through him, fire and ice at the same time, his ears burning while his fingertips turn cold.

"Do you care?"

Blaine breathes in, barely registering in his peripheral vision. "I do," he says, words that tumble from his lips careless and quiet and some part of him hopes he dreamed them up–because then his guilt wouldn't reign so strong, wouldn't pull at him with claws and hooks he's learned to tend to with his own brand of medicine.

"I learned to live with my mother's disappointment a long time ago."

Not entirely true, he holds his mother's judgment in the highest esteem, yet somehow Blaine's has started competing. Which might be why he adds, "Yours is a different matter."

"Mine?" comes Blaine's quick question.

He huffs, thumb playing through the condensation on his glass. "You're right," he says. "I guess I've lived up to my reputation."

How could he have disappointed Blaine when all his expectations had been met? The Party Prince had been shirking his duties for quite a few years, after all, living large and decadent, fully profiting from every blessing life had thrown at him. Blaine had undoubtedly done his research, read about what he got up to at night, so he knew what to expect when they got married.

"You're more than your reputation, Sebastian."

Blaine's reply comes so unexpected that for a moment or two he's absolutely certain he imagined it–why would Blaine even consider defending him after everything he's done?

He turns in his chair and tries to gauge Blaine's mood, but that's hard to do when he's learned so little of the boy–Blaine doesn't budge, just stands there with his hands buried in the pockets of his yellow chinos, complimentary black sweater, and not for the first time he catches himself thinking how princely Blaine looks. Politically, Blaine's the right fit for him, his mother no longer has to worry about him ending up alone and ties between the kingdom and the Anderson duchy have been solidified, but he wishes at the very least there could be some kind of friendship.

Which brings him to the only solution he can think of. It's not a popular practice, but it's the one way he can truly show everyone he's capable of owning up to his mistakes.

"I'll make a public apology."

Blaine frowns. "You don't have to do that."

"I hurt you," he says, rising from his seat. "I hurt my family. I disgraced myself."

Blaine's eyes soften in sympathy. "That doesn't mean–"

"I have to own up to my mistakes," he says, venturing a few steps closer, the distance between them slowly but surely shrinking. Blaine doesn't flinch, not even when he pushes in tighter, standing taller than the boy so willingly his. "But I'll need you by my side."

"Of course." Blaine nods, tentatively reaching for his hand, another mixed signal in a slew of confusing ones. "Whatever you need me to do."

.

He'd been in a public relationship once before with a Viscount's son. Julian had been a perfect match–he could keep up with the pace of his nightlife and didn't do jealousy, mostly because their fidelity to each other was never in question; Julian liked his drink and his drugs, but most of all he enjoyed his fill of him every night they spent together, bodies a tangle of limbs, their lips locked while hands roamed wherever they could reach, more and harder and soft again, until his mind convinced him they'd do this for the rest of their lives, together.

But Julian had never dealt with the pressure, the spotlight, the cameras around every corner, people picking apart his life with a fine-tooth comb–they fought about it, long and often, but no matter what he did there was one thing he'd never be able to change about himself. He was a Prince. And he would live his entire life in that spotlight.

So Julian left.

Blaine could've changed all that for him, he didn't mind the scrutiny, rather he naturally excelled at giving the press what they wanted, a smile, a wink, a seemingly stolen kiss. They were both princes, they could share the spotlight. But yet again that wasn't meant to be.

His speech goes through three drafts before it's finished, Blaine's through two. His has to reflect regret over what he did, enough contrition in his tone to ensure the people he'd never do it again, but not too much as to not appear completely broken. Blaine has to make sure he doesn't condone what his husband did, but show enough affection so the people believe he might forgive him.

It's a fine precarious line they have to balance. People expect their royalty to be larger than life, they have to be the archetypes, the King righteous and strong, a fixed point, the Queen caring and kind, a mother figure, the princes the dutiful sons, the princess a picture of virtue. And his family has succeeded in upholding those images for the most part, Hunter is heir to the throne and no one would dare touch Marley with a ten-foot pole for fear of invoking the wrath of the King and her brothers.

He's the odd one out. He has a reputation for flaunting authority, lacking virtue and propriety, even if he acts the dutiful son in official state events. The people hold him to the same standards as the rest of his family, yet his flaws remind them they're all still human too.

Blaine stands by him as he feigns to choke through some of his words, finds his eyes when he searches for Blaine's, holds his hand near the end of it and continues to hold it while he makes his own speech–tears make his eyes shine and his voice breaks a few times, and he stands in awe. He can't tell if Blaine's sincere or if it's all for show. Either way the press eats it up.

"You did really good," Blaine says as security has them stand back while they clear a path to their car. Paparazzi lurk around the corner and he's seeing spots from all the flashes, so he almost flinches when a hand slides up his chest, another pulling at his shirt collar. "I was so proud to be with you tonight."

He finds Blaine's eyes, but he can't tell anymore, where the deception starts and where it ends–Blaine can act so wonderfully caring in his touches, an intimacy he's scarce experienced with anyone but his mother or Marley.

"Do you really mean that?" he asks, as if he can't tell that Blaine's simply throwing assurances at him because it's expected of him.

Blaine's hands smooth down the lapels of his jacket, hazel eyes rife with ambiguity. "I do," he says softly, and everything in him screams that he could lose himself in those eyes given enough time, given permission, given the benefit of the doubt. He's not a bad guy, he just needs a little give and take to figure things out.

The camera flashes die out, security clearing the area.

And Blaine pulls back.

Blaine always pulls back.

.

He takes a lover.

It's not innocent and not what he promised the country, but it's a lot more discreet than his extravagant parties, a lot safer than one nameless boy after the other, and when he thinks about it probably a lot more respectful towards Blaine. He needs this like he needs air, some level of intimacy to forget himself and his responsibilities, or else he'd lose his mind.

He's a prince. He will always be one. Everyone will always know his name and his face, and will expect him to represent the fantasy of what they've construed as the consummate idea of royalty. The pressure to live up to that ideal stays with him every day, in his mother's and father's eyes, in the country's expectations of him, even in the seldom glances Blaine throws his way. And sometimes that gets to be too much.

Luckily, Adam doesn't expect anything at all.

.

Santana deposits the day's schedule and a newspaper on the breakfast table every morning for him to read, today no exception, safe for the extra file of information he'd searched together in his spare time. Hunter and his mother are out on official business, and Marley's taken advantage of their absence to sleep in.

"Where is everyone?" Blaine inquires once he finds his way into the kitchens, halting awkwardly in his tracks when he notices the only people in the room are him, Sebastian and a cook.

He looks up from his reading. "I thought we could spend some time alone."

For a moment or two it seems like Blaine might turn tail and run, shuffling like a caged animal considering all his options, and he wonders if it's truly that frightening a prospect, to sit down and have breakfast together, God forbid they have a normal conversation.

But Blaine decides to stay, sitting down opposite him at the table and pours out two glasses of orange juice. The cook makes them both scrambled eggs, but breakfast takes place in silence, both of them reading, Blaine not so much as glancing up at him.

"You slept through the night," he says, a futile attempt at getting anything out of Blaine.

"I didn't," Blaine answers. "You didn't hear me leave."

He takes a deep breath, his content over seeing Blaine still in bed this morning flowing out of him to be replaced by good old annoyance over Blaine's behavior. But he doesn't voice it, he promised his mother he'd try, and he will, for as long as he's able to.

He draws a napkin over his lips and gets up, putting the file he compiled down next to Blaine's plate.

"What's this?" Blaine asks, tentatively opening the folder, eyes scanning the information on the first page.

"A list of every charity organization in the country," he says. "I thought maybe you could find a worthy cause."

Blaine releases a breath and relaxes in his chair, shame riddled in his eyes. "You did all this for me?"

He could take that credit, appease Blaine with the idea that he did this out of respect and caring, a reciprocating gesture for all the times Blaine has stood by his side and pretended to be someone he's not.

But he doesn't.

"It's time you stop doing what you think I expect you to do," he answers, the truth setting stark beneath his skin as Blaine casts down his eyes. He can't stand the thought of making Blaine uncomfortable, but this will be the last time, he'll show caring and respect when necessary, but beyond that Blaine needs to find his place first. He hopes this will be the first step towards that goal. "You might be stuck with me, but you're stuck with your title too. Make the most of it."

He's halfway across the room when Blaine's voice sounds, "Sebastian." He turns around to see Blaine has turned in his chair, facing him, hands uncertain around the folder. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." He sighs. "Me too."

.

The sheets curl around his legs as he turns in the bed, sticky with sweat and lube and come, but as he settles on his side, head propped up on one arm, he smiles involuntarily. He'd never taken to the idea of a lover before, but he could get used to this, spend his nights in the same company, carry on a conversation, experience pleasure and intimacy in the hands of one and the same man.

"I don't remember giving you permission to leave the bed."

Adam's body shines with sweat, his skin a pearly white where the moonlight can reach, standing tall and naked in front of the window. "Missing me already, are you?" he asks, a question he leaves unanswered.

He'd never describe his attachment to Adam as _having feelings for him_, but he already wakes up to an empty bed at home whenever he sleeps there, so he prefers to avoid it here whenever he can, even if he leaves Adam to wake up to an empty bed himself in the morning.

Adam makes his way back to the bed and sits down at the edge, well out of his reach. "What does your dreamy prince have to say about all this?"

"He understands I have certain needs."

Adam scoots closer. "Needs he doesn't fulfill."

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling–Adam's right, Blaine leaves him alone and wanting, but he's reluctant to speak ill of him in private quarters. Blaine's not a bad guy either, but the crippling thought that they're not compatible coils tighter around his heart every passing day. Maybe Blaine had hoped to marry for love one day, but he's pretty sure that deep down he too had hazarded that longing.

"How very noble of him." Adam kisses his shoulder and settles over his body, warm and welcome, before his curiosity gets the best of him again. "Do you love him?" Adam asks, another kiss to his chest, lips tracing lower and lower.

"I don't know him." He sighs, a frown creasing between his eyebrows at his own reply. "He won't let me in."

Kisses trail down his abdomen, Adam's tongue spoons into his bellybutton, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

"You want to love him," Adam says, licking over his hipbone, teeth grazing over his skin.

He reaches down and wires his fingers through Adam's hair. "Does that surprise you?"

Adam smirks up at him, eyes dark and lustful. "Not one bit."

.

Blaine takes his advice to heart, meeting with the boards and chairmen of some of the charities that catch his eye, and he becomes the benefactor of quite a few. He hires an assistant to help him with the work and organization, a cheerful blond by the name of Sam Evans, who everyone quickly takes a liking to.

And it's an absolute delight to come home and see Blaine smile, to hear his laughter fill up a room from time to time, to see him focused on paperwork with the most serious look on his face as if his plans would save the entire country.

He gives Blaine time and space, selfishly hoping that one day he might be rewarded for his patience.

.

He doesn't remember his early days at Court, barely three years old, safe for playing with Hunter's toys while their nanny frantically tried to keep the peace between them. It was much later, once he found himself more stable on his toddler feet, that he became a real menace–his mother soon had to hire a second nanny, because he escaped supervision every chance he got, whether he was allowed to roam around or not, and he explored every nook and cranny of the residence.

Until one day he found a room that had captured his imagination. Inside was a piano, a Steinway concert grand he would later learn, and when his little fingers pressed down on one of the keys, it made the most beautiful high-pitched sound. He'd pulled himself up on the bench, his legs kicking back and forth because his feet didn't quite reach the ground, and he happily tapped away at random keys.

His mother got him a tutor not long after that.

Since that day, whenever the residence got too loud or too crowded, whenever his mind became a heap of chaotic thought, he sat down behind that piano, played his favorite pieces, Marley often sitting down next to him, listening, humming along, but never saying a word.

He's neglected his playing these past few years in favor of going out and having fun, sexual release something other than the quiet soothing tones of the music but equally capable of cancelling out all the background static.

"I didn't know you played," Blaine's voice sounds, his footsteps as imperceptible as ever.

He glances over his shoulder, smiling, "Plenty of things you don't know about me, killer," before returning his gaze to the keys, his entire body swaying to the sounds of the music.

At first he expects Blaine to leave, or at the very least remain in the doorway, because that's been his MO since they started living together. So he's more than a little surprised to see Blaine take Marley's usual spot on the bench next to him. There's a good few inches between them, but there's nothing awkward about it.

Blaine raises his hands to the keys alongside his, picking up the melody with the greatest ease. They play for a good long while, and he gets the sense his sister and his mother check in on him, but refrain from sticking around to give him and Blaine some privacy.

The song ends and he pulls back his hands, Blaine playing a made-up melody.

"I'm impressed."

"Plenty of things you don't know about me," Blaine smiles, "–_sweetheart_."

He blinks, but a laugh escapes him at Blaine's attempt at humor.

"I'd like to," he says, betraying his deepest desire.

He's not sure Blaine hears it.

Blaine continues to play, and when he loses himself in thought he can't help but wonder where he goes, who he thinks about, whether his mind floods with memories of home and how much he misses it, or if the music transports him to some place he'd rather be. And somewhere at the back of his own mind, a tiny voice starts whispering: does he put that pressure he's so desperate to drown out in Adam's arms on Blaine too? Are his expectations suffocating this beautiful boy?

.

Somewhere late spring the Duke and Duchess visit for a few days, but before he can decide to give the Anderson family some space, he notices Blaine acting distant. He hadn't taken or gotten the time to get to know his mother and father-in-law before the wedding, so he never saw Blaine interact with them either, but seeing Blaine so closed off from his parents as well starts off a curious panic. What hope is there to ever thaw Blaine out if he can't open up to his own parents?

The day the Andersons leave again Blaine sits himself down in the garden, under the rustling guard of a giant willow tree; he has some books with him but doesn't seem to be reading, so he ventures closer, his curiosity gnawing at him for answers.

"You miss home?" he asks, because it's the only reason he can think of for Blaine to be sad.

Blaine lets the question sink in, but shrugs, "Not really."

He takes Blaine's answer as an invitation to sit down by his side, but waits for Blaine to decide on the pace should there be room for a more thorough explanation. What he gets instead, has him listening more attentively than ever.

"It's never been easy for me to connect to people, Sebastian," Blaine says, tugging at some blades of grass. "It isn't you."

He sits back against the willow, legs crossed at the ankles. "You're the nicest guy I've ever met."

Blaine looks at him, and smiles. "I'm good at pretending."

That much he believes, Blaine has this knack of lighting up an entire room with the warmth of his smile, and that must be a power he realized he had a long time ago, because he employs it masterfully. But what ever gave Blaine reason to believe he had to pretend before they even met? What gruesome event did he relive every night that has scarred him into a frightened boy?

"But you like the attention."

Blaine shakes his head. "Not at the cost of someone else's."

"Tell me about your home."

The request pushes past his lips involuntarily, it's been burning right there for months and gotten all the more insistent these past few days–he's been patient, Blaine's had time, his guard seems down for the first time since they got married, so maybe he'll finally learn a little more.

For long moments the wind sounds solitary through the foliage, accompanied by birdsong and a hedge trimmer off in the distance. Blaine crosses his legs and stares out in front of him, but slowly, little by little, Blaine divulges his family history; about growing up under his uncle's rule, which was a lot less peaceful than his father's; how the fields around the manor stretched for miles in every direction and he'd walk for hours and hours, exploring, lying in the grass, watching the stars once it grew dark; how they had horses and rabbits and a whole bunch of other livestock in the farms surrounding his home, how his mother had taught him to ride ...

He gets the distinct impression that there's something Blaine leaves out, he paints a perfect picture of his life in the duchy and no origin for his nightmares, but he foregoes the question. They sit and talk all afternoon, about both their lives, and he's not about to push his luck.

Santana never shows up to remind him of his three o'clock appointment.

Neither Quinn nor Sam shows up to get Blaine to attend his duties.

And he makes a mental note to thank his mother for that later.

.

"Hey," Adam whispers, his soft call shaking him from his thoughts, fingertips drawing small circles over his chest. "Where did you go just then?"

He draws a hand down his face. "I just have a lot on my mind."

"Want to talk about it?"

"No," he says, and gets up, heading straight for the bathroom.

He leaves his wine on the nightstand, too warm to drink now.

.

After almost a year he dares say he and Blaine have become friends. There's a mutual respect and understanding between them and it hasn't gone unnoticed. His mother has expressed her pride and marvel, he stays out of the gossip magazines, and Blaine features in his own stories about his charity work.

War continues along the northern borders, and there's talk about Hunter joining the war effort now that he's turned eighteen, but the people are happy. For the most part.

At breakfast, Blaine and Marley talk excitedly about theatre productions they're both dying to see, about taking Marley shopping or meet with designers for new dresses she'd like. His mother doesn't have to desperately try to make conversation anymore, rather she enjoys sitting back and listen to her children, laughing, talking excitedly amongst themselves.

He still sees Adam two or three times a week. He loves that from time to time he gets to wake up next to someone who wants to be there, who kisses him good morning before he slips away, and always knows how to make him feel good.

At dinner Blaine talks about his day and the work he's doing, about how much help Sam has become and how lovely Marley is. And he can talk to Blaine too now, about his work with his father, about his worries about the war.

They're friends, and he can live with that.

.

Blaine's nightmares grow less frequent, but every time they come around they frustrate him more. His moods turn dark and he locks himself up in his office, refusing to talk to anyone. It soon becomes clear he's the only one aware of Blaine's nightmares, though some of the staff have undoubtedly heard him late at night. Most nights he won't hear Blaine leave, he's too sound a sleeper, but his heart aches every time he opens his eyes to an empty bed, every night he's roused by the click of the door, Blaine sneaking out or back in to fool him into thinking he stayed.

He wants to be able to fix this too, but he doesn't know how.

One night at the height of summer, the windows opened to let in the slightest gust of wind, Blaine spooks him awake with a whine and a tug at the sheets, even though both of them are barely covered.

"Blaine," he whispers, and draws closer, but gets no reply.

He's careful not to move too much, but he settles his chest to Blaine's back, however warm and sticky, and snakes an arm around his waist, hoping that holding Blaine will be enough to calm him down.

"Don't," Blaine says, his voice breaking through the peaceful silence inside the room.

The moonlight reveals Blaine's eyes are open, the rays catching in his long eyelashes. "Tell me what to do." He traces his fingertips down Blaine's arm, less easily persuaded to back down. "Please, Blaine, talk to me. You can't keep hiding this from me, it's not good for you."

"My sister–" Blaine croaks.

"You have a sister?" he blurts out, against his better judgment, because Blaine cringes and slips out of his hold, sitting up in the bed. But Blaine's never mentioned a sister, neither had the Andersons or his mother–there's an older brother, Cooper, so what happened to a sister?

"I did," Blaine says softly.

_Oh. _

Before he can say anything else Blaine stands up and disappears from the room, leaving him to question everything Blaine has told him so far. Blaine told him the duchy had achieved peace under his father's rule, not his uncle's, that there was fighting he could hear all the way from his bedroom when he was little. Had his sister somehow gotten caught up in that?

He lies awake for a good long while, listening around for any clue that Blaine might return, but after a good fifteen minutes he sits up–he can't keep waiting for Blaine to come to him, or else it'll be another year before he gets the truth out of him. He should take action and urge Blaine to talk about whatever trauma lay at the core of his nightmares.

Blaine's in the salon standing by the window, his body outlined white by the moonlight.

"Tell me what happened."

Blaine inclines his head. "Is that an order?"

"It's–" He sighs, sitting down on the couch. "It's me getting to know you better."

Silence once again fills the space between them, crickets chirping underneath the windowsill, the moon their only source of lighting. He's determined to wait it out for as long as he needs to, he'll wait until the sun comes up and the house wakes up around them–one way or the other Blaine will talk to him.

He's not sure how much time passes before Blaine finally speaks.

"I like it here because it's safe," he says, staring out the window, tears touching his eyes.

He gives Blaine the respect of his own silence this time.

"Back when my uncle was still in charge of the manor there was a lot of rioting," Blaine continues. "He wasn't like my dad, he–" Blaine swallows hard. "He didn't treat the people or the servants well, and–"

Blaine draws in a shuddery breath. "One night they decided to fight back."

"We were seven years old," Blaine says. "We were meant to be hiding, but Rachel got caught up in the struggle. Cooper tried to get to her, but it was too late."

He can see it so clearly, two scared children running for their lives in their own home, no clue as to what's going on, pulled apart without warning, a brother crying out for his sister in the dark of night–and his Blaine, his prince, forced to hear her scream in his dreams every night.

"Blaine," he hushes, "I am so sorry."

"Our family hasn't been the same since." Blaine sniffles, wiping at a stray tear. "My parents tried, but without Rachel–"

What he hears is Blaine hasn't been the same since. It's a shame. _It's a tragedy_. He'd like to have known that boy he was before, unencumbered by grief or loss, free to laugh and cheer without feeling guilty over disrespecting his sister, a small curly haired menace with the brightest smile imaginable. But he understands why he had to become this boy instead.

Blaine walks over to the couch and sits down next to him, and he can't stop himself from reaching out a hand for Blaine's cheek, thumbing small but soothing circles into his skin. "I'm sorry," he repeats, "I'm so sorry."

Blaine's body sways closer to his as he places a hand over his heart beating frantic, eyes shining, cut open raw and bleeding and when Blaine pushes his lips to his mouth, his part without thinking, his tongue darts out and licks a line over Blaine's upper lip, he falls forward and licks inside Blaine mouth but only because his body learned how to do it.

Blaine lets out a small whimper, instantly reminding him how they got here.

"Don't–" he says, forehead settling against Blaine's, acutely aware of Blaine's labored breathing, the way his body sits tensed against a concession he's more than willing to make. But he's not willing to take it now that Blaine's so vulnerable.

"I want to be someone you deserve," Blaine says softly, the tips of his fingers cold against his chest.

He draws in a shaky breath, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. He sniffles, "I'll never be good enough to deserve you, Blaine Anderson," and kisses Blaine's forehead before he pulls away, well out of Blaine's reach, on his feet without him realizing. "Never."

.

He pays Adam handsomely for his silence, and doesn't see him again.

.

From that night on Blaine stops hiding from him. Every time he tosses and turns or wakes up restless he stays in bed, and never complains when he curls his body around his, holding him until he falls asleep again, often until the morning light. And it's only when this happens, this sudden change in their behavior, this small status quo that took quite a while to find, that he realizes this is the kind of intimacy he craved all along.

.

"You don't go out anymore," Blaine tells him one early morning, sunlight gleaming in the windows, warm nights swayed into cooler ones and the sheets tolerable over their half naked bodies. His legs are drawn up around Blaine's outline, lips to the back of his neck, nose buried in his curls.

"I know."

Blaine slides a hand over the arm draped around his hip, his fingers wiggling between his. "Because of me?"

The question comes loaded with meaning, layer upon layer; does he stay because Blaine doesn't approve of his nightly escapades, because he values his opinion, or because Blaine's company is enough? The truth turns out to be just as layered. He wants to be a person Blaine deserves, the person he owes himself to be, a prince, a husband, maybe, in time, even a lover.

"Yes."

Blaine reveals yet another layer. "You don't have to stay with me every night."

"That's not what I meant," he says, and kisses Blaine's shoulder before he turns in his arms, hazel eyes so familiar, so precious. He plays with Blaine's hand too, pained by this minute pull inside his chest begging him closer, urging him to admit to something that's been beating steady for a very long time. "I didn't know this was for me."

"What was?"

A smile pulls at a corner of his mouth. "Love."

"_Sebastian_," Blaine whispers, fingers flitting careless over his skin, eyes darting between his eyes and his lips and next a hand curls around his neck, pulling him down until their lips meet. Blaine's body melts against his like it's been doing so for years, fingers digging rampant through his hair like he's trying to claw the truth right out of him.

"Love?" Blaine asks, breathing hard against his lips, shaking in his arms.

"Or something like it," he admits, none too sure what exactly it is they've found.

.

They hold hands in public.

They kiss in public.

Even when no one's watching.

.

He receives the news one dreary September day, a storm has turned the world outside dark and gray, and that's exactly how it feels when he reads the message. He knew it would come eventually, he's been training for it for years, but he never expected to be married, to be in love with a boy who asks him to hold him at night for fear his nightmares would get the best of him.

How does he tell Blaine that he's leaving for war?

He decides on a specific day at a specific time, makes sure they're alone so he can assure Blaine with his eyes and his hands, with his arms and body, with his lips if need be, because the thought of breaking Blaine's heart has gotten to be unbearable.

But he never gets the chance.

He enters the bedroom half-dressed when a sniffle catches his attention, Blaine standing just inside the door, a newspaper in one hand, tears in his eyes.

"You're going to war?" Blaine's voice breaks.

A dull thud pounds violently against his ribcage.

"You're going to war and you didn't tell me?"

"How did you find out?"

"It's in all the papers." Blaine storms over and shoves the newspaper into his arms. "Everyone knows."

He stands pinned to the ground, all his plans up in smoke, the front page of the paper announcing his intentions in big block letters. "Blaine, God, I'm so sorry." His heart beats fast at the thought of Blaine's panic while his own rises, because Blaine has backed away from him.

This isn't how it was supposed to be.

"Someone leaked this," he says. "I swear I was going to tell you today. Properly."

"So it's true," Blaine says. "You're leaving."

"I've been training for this for years. I'm old enough."

A tear spills down Blaine's cheek. "I thought after everything we've been–" but he doesn't say it, not after all the effort they've gone through to get here, why point out how far they've come, how far they have yet to go, how amazing they could be if given enough time. But now time has caught up, war will rip them apart for God knows how long. "Why would you want this?"

"I serve my King, same as anyone else. It's the right thing to do."

"Your father died in the war."

"Hunter is–"

"Hunter is heir to the throne!" Blaine shouts. "I'm not stupid, Sebastian, he won't see any combat."

"Blaine."

He takes a step closer, grateful when Blaine doesn't flinch, and cups Blaine's face between both hands, faced with that once-scared little boy, and he hates how that it's his fault this time around. "You have to understand I have to do this. For both my fathers."

"I do understand, I just–" Blaine shakes his head, grabbing a tight hold of his wrists, keeping his hands firmly in place. "I thought we'd have more time."

"Me too." He pushes a kiss to Blaine's forehead and pulls him to his chest. "Me too," he whispers, his heart beating fast, empty, painful.

.

The morning of his deployment Blaine helps him into his dress uniform. They're silent through the entire process, stepping into his dress pants, buttoning up his shirt and sleeves, pulling his jacket over his shoulders, the brass buttons gleaming. They've already said all that could be said, lying in each other's arms all night, exchanging assurances and hot kisses and endearments he never thought himself capable of expressing.

"Don't worry, Anderson," he'd said close to morning, neither of them sleepy. "You're still stuck with me."

And Blaine had smiled at the memory, though a little sad, "There are worse people to be stuck with."

Once he's dressed, his service cap tucked underneath one of his arms, they walk down the hallway hand in hand, catching each other's eyes every few seconds. Every sense of duty in him wants this, wants to serve his country the way his father did, for the King, fight for honor and justice, though in all his years spent dreaming he never thought there'd be something tying him down. The thought of leaving Blaine to fight off his nightmares on his own cripples him.

"Stop worrying." Blaine attempts to quiet his fears. "I'll be okay. I have a place here now."

They reach the front hall, where Marley runs over and throws her arms around his neck, trying her best not to cry. His mother hugs him tight and kisses him on the cheek, clearly struggling with tears herself.

Last, he turns to Blaine again, who takes hold of his hands and rises on his toes, planting a soft kiss to his lips. "Promise me one thing," he whispers.

"What's that?"

Blaine licks his lips, uncertain about what he's about to beg of him. "Come back to me."

He stares down into Blaine's eyes for what could be the last time in a long time. "I promise," he says, convinced of it with every fiber in his body, every thought, every conviction, his every heartbeat informed with three simple words. "_I'll come back_."

He kisses Blaine's temple and turns around before anyone can see the tear rolling down his cheek, and marches towards the front door.

And he doesn't look back.

* * *

#

**if you can, please let me know what you think?**


	3. Part Three

**disclaimer:** without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

**characters/pairings:** Sebastian/Blaine, Sebastian's mother, Jeff, mention of Sam, Quinn, Marley, Hunter

**author's** **notes:** written for Seblaine Sunday, prompt: arranged marriage. the response to this story has been really overwhelming and absolutely lovely. thank you so much to everyone!

* * *

**WHAT A PRINCE AND LOVER OUGHT TO BE;;**

**chapter three**

* * *

Seasons come and go, one harsher than the other, even though the conditions lose their meanings in an environment of constant threat and heightened vigilance.

He's stationed near the Northern border, where enemy incursions are more the rule than the exception and he sees combat within his first week. His platoon pulls through with some bumps and bruises, a few cuts, and one bullet wound.

The first few weeks away from Blaine are the hardest, or maybe they seem the hardest because the living conditions change so drastically. He either sleeps in the tents on a hard army cot or on the ground outside, in a camp where a silent moment to oneself is rare; he got used to the food during training, but they're dependent on convoys to bring them supplies; communications are down or disabled for fear the enemy could intercept their transmissions–and if the enemy were to find out they had a prince among them their offence might become stronger.

But no one treats him like royalty here, he's one of the guys, a major in the King's army, and he doesn't receive any special treatment.

Blaine starts writing him good old-fashioned letters two months in, every week without fail, even though the convoy often misses a week and delivers two or three at a time. But Blaine's letters light his dark world every time he reads or rereads them, they update him on his work and his family, about the young count trying to seduce Marley but she won't have any of it, about how Blaine has sought counselling for his nightmares and he's doing better every day. And sometimes, rarely, Blaine writes about missing his arms around him at night, about a lack of soft words whispered in the dead of night–he understands that Blaine's trying to refrain from guilting him too much, but it's nice to read he's missed, too.

He rarely has the time to write back, but when he does it's usually in the middle of the night, everyone around him asleep, a small flashlight clutched between his lips to light the hand guiding his pen across the paper.

For a good few weeks during spring they're cut off from everything and everyone, convoys laid under siege by missile launchers positioned just across the border. There's a limited amount of rations and little to no supplies, and when Jeff complains about the cold one night he's been missing Blaine too much and too hard not to let him sleep in his arms, if only so he can close his eyes and imagine black curly hair between his fingers, a bright smile to light his way, hazel eyes shining through the dark.

Blaine's asleep in their bed on the other side of the country, unaware that some of his letters have gotten destroyed, and he has no means to let him know he's alright.

"I'm sorry," Jeff mumbles into the warmth of their combined body heat.

"Don't be," he says softly, as he sees, hears, and feels nothing but Blaine.

Summer brings some reprieve, along with a burning ache to his joints from all the nights sitting huddled in the trenches, head ducked and shoulders hunched to brace against the impact of the shells the enemy sends their way. Extra troops join them along the border and he starts receiving letters again, one equally as positive as the next, though Blaine's words betray a melancholy for the nights they spent together, a longing for days past and maybe even days to come. He holds onto that hope, grips it tight between the folds of his faltering heart, allows it to fill up the emptiness and blot out the white noise. If only for a little while.

.

Exactly one year after he was drafted his superiors come to him with an important mission.

He and his platoon are sent into Foxland Forest in the Northern Territory, beyond the border, to secure the first stronghold for the rest of the troops to take the valley, something they have failed to do for over three years. The operation has already been planned and gotten the green light, and he has no choice but to obey orders.

It's a bloodbath.

They barely make it across the border before all hell breaks loose, a bomb goes off to their right flank and they run for cover, but not before two of his men are swept aside by the shockwave like ragdolls, their bodies falling heavy to the ground, where they remain, unmoving.

A second bomb drops several meters closer, tree foliage flies around with shrapnel and dirt that gets stuck in his eyes, his ears ringing from the blast. Someone shouts, "Medic!" in the distance and he can't believe he's already lost count of the amount of men dying.

Gunshots sound in the distance, bullets impaling his first lieutenant in front of his eyes while the platoon gets surrounded by enemy troops. He runs over, the sound of his boots on the ground drowned out by dropping bombs and gunfire. "Wes!" he shouts, pulling Wes' lifeless body out of the line of fire to a more secure spot. "Medic!" he calls, but doubts his voice reaches over the cacophony of war.

He applies pressure to Wes' wounds, blood slipping through the clefts of his fingers until his hands are stained red, desperation and fear seizing around his heart.

"Call for air support!" he calls to his communications officer, before a sharp pain stabs at his temple and knocks him to the ground, where he passes out, darkness taking hold.

.

Thirteen months pass. And war turns out to be far less glamorous than the stories made it out to be.

.

The Capital remains unchanged, one winter has replaced the previous, the snow slowly melting as the season drifts into one considered livelier. A headache pounds behind his left eye, hiding behind dark sunglasses the doctors advised him to wear whenever he ventured outside for at least a few more weeks. He got lucky, a piece of shrapnel had left a nasty gash to his temple but missed his eye by a few millimeters, and hadn't broken any bone–if the shrapnel hadn't lost momentum after the bomb dropped he could've suffered brain damage.

Still, return to the field was not advised, not even after the month-long recovery he'd undergone.

So the doctors released him and told him to go home, something he'd been longing for before his mission, but now it felt like he was abandoning all those who still needed him, needed him to lead and be shown that an injury wasn't the end of a military stint. Unfortunately for him neither the King nor his brother would allow him to go back, and he has the strong suspicion his mother wouldn't either.

His palms turn sweaty once the guards outside the residence guide him out of the car and some of the staff greet him, his heart rampant against his ribcage as his footsteps walk him down the uncomfortably familiar hallway towards a boy he prays still recognizes him.

He hears Blaine's voice before he sees him, a hiccupy laugh interspersed with another voice he recognizes as Sam's–he takes a deep breath; he's back, he's safe, he has nothing to be afraid of here. Part of him could live with this, watch Blaine from the periphery because he fears he could be blinded if he were fully exposed to him all at once. But he could stand to be a little overexposed.

Sam sees him first, Blaine's back turned towards him until he notices how Sam bows his head out of respect and Blaine turns on his heels. "Sebastian," his name tumbles from Blaine's lips like a hushed secret he's been keeping close all this time. Blaine walks over steadfast, not a single moment's hesitation before Blaine's arms wrap around his torso.

He staggers on his heels for just a second, Blaine's face buried in his chest, and a dam breaks inside him, all the carefully placed constructions to keep from missing Blaine, to stay professional amongst his fellow soldiers, everything comes floating out and leaves him weak and weary and dizzy.

"You came back," Blaine whispers.

He pushes his lips to Blaine's hair, inhaling the scent of his hair gel that's at once familiar and alien. "I promised, didn't I?"

Blaine looks up at him, tears in his eyes. "You're a hero." He beams. "Everyone's been talking."

He swallows hard, unable to keep hold of Blaine's eyes. He's not a hero.

"They–" Blaine raises a hand to his temple and carefully touches his healed skin. "They told me you got hurt. But they wouldn't let me see you."

"Too dangerous," he says. "I was airlifted out."

"And your head?"

"Nothing more than a scar now."

Blaine smiles through his tears, a pang of pain and gratitude and something he forgot how to decipher. "I've missed you."

Somehow, he manages a small smile. "Me too," he says softly, and when Blaine hugs him again the weight of it stands out, the expectation enveloped within the simple embrace, and he's none too sure this is one expectation he could stand to bear.

.

In the days that follow his return it becomes clear that Blaine has found his place.

Marley and Blaine have gotten really close, they have their own things they talk about that few people manage to make sense of and go out together every so often. His mother treats Blaine like her own son, her little touches betray that easily, though he turns into the main recipient again once he's home.

Blaine's working on a petition on healthcare with Sam, one he plans to bring to his father during the next session of Parliament. He watches Sam and Blaine when they think he's not there, and sees a fondness in both their eyes that wasn't there before he left, an appreciation for each other, or even love. It could be his imagination, or maybe there's something there he should be afraid of, but what scares him tenfold is the realization that he doesn't really care.

.

At night Blaine sleeps soundly. There's an occasional whine and tug at the sheets, but nothing that would indicate Blaine's having a nightmare. He lies awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, accompanied by the steady sound of his heart, beating faster and louder than normal.

He still sleeps a lot during the day, especially when his headaches get too bad, so he rarely joins Blaine when he goes to sleep at night. The bed's too hard anyway, and all his naps take place on the hard settee in his office that's actually only there for show. He shoots awake in a cold sweat every time, clutching a pillow in his arms so tight it takes him minutes upon minutes to calm himself down enough to wrench his arms free.

So he's grateful Blaine's therapy has paid off.

.

Blaine catches on pretty quickly, that he starts sneaking out of bed the same way he used to, but unlike him Blaine approaches in the dead of night, makes sure to let him know he notices, maybe even understands. Because Blaine doesn't judge.

It's one of those nights, near the end of March, that he leaves Blaine sleeping alone and wanders to his office, opening the bottom drawer of his desk to unearth the letters Blaine wrote him. The ones he received anyway. He traces his fingers over the careless penmanship and tries to imagine Blaine behind his own desk, sucking on the end of his pen every so often, deeply concentrated on the words he put down, each of them carefully chosen for his benefit.

"Are those my letters?" Blaine's voice sounds behind him, not for the first time. Soon one of Blaine's hands lands on his shoulder and his body leans sideways into his, a weight he misses and fears at the same time. "You kept them all."

"They meant a lot to me," he says, placing the letters back in the drawer with a care that proves how precious they are to him. "They still do."

"I'm happy we don't need them anymore." Blaine smooths a hand down his back and kisses his hair, an arm around his shoulder that's meant to be an anchor, he wants it to be, but it only reminds him that he's not the same man that left here over a year ago. "Come to bed," Blaine says.

He stands up and lets Blaine guide him back to the bedroom, their index and middle fingers hooked together, and they both crawl underneath the sheets. But where Blaine no doubt hopes for the kind of physical intimacy they'd found before, he pulls himself onto his side, his back turned to Blaine, and tries to even out his breathing.

"Sebastian?" comes Blaine's soft call, but he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to cancel it all out; the mattress too soft, the residence too quiet, too eerie after all the background static he'd gotten used to, and Blaine too pure to taint with his darkness. So he lies still, fighting tears, clutching the mattress so hard his hands cramp up, but he keeps at it.

Blaine shifts behind him, and soon presses up against his back, his lips to his neck, a hand on his hip.

But he fails to reciprocate, or relax, or fall asleep.

.

Blaine's happy there's no longer any need for him to write letters, because he has him right there to talk to.

But they don't.

He doesn't talk about the war.

And Blaine never asks.

.

April brings with it tentative peace negotiations, so his mother assesses it's the opportune moment to throw a banquet in his name, the hero that set it all in motion. And he plays his part, dresses up in a new tailored suit and smiles for the cameras, squeezing Blaine's hand harder than necessary when his anxiety threatens to spill over, but it makes sure Blaine stays close.

His mother wrote an inspired speech about heroes and the consequences of war that he memorizes word for word, none of it true, none of it in line with his own spiraling state of mind. But he does what's expected of him. He greets dukes and their wives, ministers and preachers with the bravest face he can muster, while deep inside a dark and pitiful thing starts eating at his nerves, at his countenance, at his carefully construed mask of bravery.

He doesn't feel brave. If anything, he still feels wounded.

A few hours in he escapes to an empty room restricted to any guests; Blaine was having a lively conversation with the minister of health care. It's a small room, a fire burning in the fireplace and a piano in the far right corner, placed there almost as some kind of invitation. He walks over and taps a random key, the melodic sound unaccompanied by its usual soothing effect.

His entire body crawls with jitters, something growing weak inside him, the soft buzz from the other room bringing back the distant memory of what already seems like another life.

His eye twitches at the sharp sound of a bomb dropping somewhere in the distance, and a wet line runs down his cheek.

He wipes at his face.

Tears.

He breathes in deep and pinches his thumbs in his fists, trying to maintain control over his emotions. He traverses the room and heads for the cabinet by the wall, several crystal decanters on top. Before he gets to pick his poison, however, Blaine's voice sounds from the doorway, "Everyone's looking for you."

His fingers fold around a random stopper; he doesn't care what it is, as long as the burn of the liquor helps him recapture some sense of reality. "I needed some space," he says, the stopper clinking inside the neck of the bottle, too loud. He pours himself a glass with shaking hands, but Blaine stops him from bringing it to his lips.

"Where are you?" Blaine asks, the most apt question anyone could've asked him right now. Because Blaine's right, he hasn't been here, hasn't been present, his head stuck in that forest with Wes, hands stained blood red.

He swallows hard. "You know where," he answers, and waits unnerved until Blaine releases the bottom of the glass, lips forming around the cold glass, whiskey running hot down his throat. Blaine clasps a hand around his arm and rests his lips to his shoulder, his touch informed with the same longing his letters had reflected–his guilt threatens to tear him in half, but he can't be here for Blaine, he's not the man that left here, he's not the man Blaine developed feelings for, no, that man sits trapped between cold war seasons and his desire to return to warm summer days lying wrapped up in Blaine's kisses. But he can't reach either. He doesn't feel the brave soldier that left home and hearth to fight for his country, not since he learned what mud soaked with blood looks like, and he doesn't feel like the husband who had pulsed with the promise of coming back home.

He's stuck.

Not a lover. Not a prince. Barely even a man.

He stares down at the clear liquid left in the glass. Tears blur his vision and his breathing deepens, his heart breaking at what he's about to do. "Don't wait up for me tonight," he says, replacing the glass on the cabinet, and pulls free from Blaine's hold.

"I thought we–" Blaine starts, but doesn't voice the echo of a promise in the past.

"I respect you, Blaine. Isn't that what you wanted?" He looks at Blaine, every bit the broken he'd once found in his bed over and over, and he can't stand the hurt in the hazel eyes that lay superimposed over all his nightmares. But his fear of hurting Blaine physically has burrowed so much deeper, has upturned the realization that he's not like Blaine, he won't be healed by soft touches in the night. So, he cuts Blaine down, pushes him away the only way he knows how. "Besides, you and Sam seem to be getting along."

And the way Blaine's eyes immediately shift from hurt to rightfully accused shouldn't hurt so much.

Blaine shakes his head. "We haven't–"

"You should." He casts down his eyes. "You deserve more than I can give you right now."

Blaine remains silent, and he can't bring himself to look again, so he tracks towards the doorway.

"Where are you going?"

"You know where."

He lies.

Blaine can't know, shouldn't know, that not a single warm body could ever reawaken his dispassionate heart, he's seen too much, lost good men, men who had husbands and wives and children that did love them and awaited their return. How had he deserved to survive?

He doesn't go out like he suggested to Blaine, instead he tells the staff to ready one of the guest quarters in another wing of the residence and instructs them not to tell anyone that he sleeps there. He foregoes using the bed, but lies down on the hard couch in the small salon of the room.

.

He's not proud, he's not happy, pushing Blaine away hasn't negated his guilt or lightened his burden. The problem is he doesn't feel much of anything. There's something wrong with him, beyond his frayed nerves and aching heart, much deeper than his healing scar.

He looks at his hands and they're bloody. Some nights blood pours down them and soaks his clothing, some nights he dreams about having Wes in his arms again and he wakes up having torn a pillow to shreds, tiny feathers strewed all around him, his heart beating equally bloody in his chest.

Some nights he dreams about holding Blaine, and he screams himself awake because he can't, _he won't_, he refuses to hurt Blaine.

.

He never avoids Blaine, though–he attends breakfast and even manages some half-assed attempt at conversation, catches Blaine's eyes on him from time to time, ever laced with the same concern. He hasn't returned to work, he can't face people that would pat him on the back and praise him for what he did in the North when he hasn't accepted it for himself yet.

One of those mornings he makes his way back down to the left wing alongside Blaine, where Sam's waiting with his briefcase and papers and a light coat. Blaine's presenting his healthcare bill to the King today.

"Today's the big day, huh?" he says, and Blaine seems so surprised that he stands and blinks a few times, making sure he said anything at all.

"Yeah."

"Well, good luck." He digs his hands into his pockets and his eyes can't decide where to land, his nerves still too close to the surface for him to control. "I'm sure you'll do great."

"Thank you," Blaine says softly; he takes a step closer, rising on his toes to plant a kiss to his cheek. He closes his eyes briefly, before he stares down into bright hazel ones that beg just enough of him not to buckle under the pressure. "Have a nice day, okay?"

He casts down his eyes, but nods, shuffling a little, and maybe Blaine wants to say it, maybe he could even stand to hear it, how they're stuck with each other, there's no one else they'd rather be stuck with, that Blaine will be patient and give him time, because the roles have become so painfully reversed for them there can't be anything else but that deep understanding.

But Blaine knows that any assurances might not be reciprocated, so he retreats down the hallway with Sam.

"He waited for you, you know," his mother's voice sounds as soon as he rounds the corner into the salon, standing by the large settee in front of the window. "Every day, he stood staring out this window," she continues, "hoping for news from the front. News from you."

His mother smooths a hand over the fabric of the headrest, replaced with a new pattern. "He worried this seat silly." Tears break through his mother's words and he aches to think how much his absence had affected everyone; his mother, Marley, Blaine, they were all so happy to see him again, to have him back. But he wonders if they realize only part of him came back. "Had to have it replaced."

"Mom."

He closes the distance between them and pulls his mother into a tight hug, her body shaking against his. "I was so worried," she cries. "When they told me you'd been hurt–"

"Everything's okay." He rubs up and down his mother's back. "I'm back now."

"My sweet boy," his mother says softly, "Are you?"

.

Post traumatic stress.

It sounds like too simple a term for the indescribable complication hard coded into his brain, but a diagnosis is better than continuing to live with the uncertainty that somehow his source code got rewritten without a way to unscramble it.

He'd already figured it out, the memories that plagued him whether he was awake or asleep, his plummeting sense of control, the stark numbness set underneath his skin for anything or anyone that approached him, all symptoms of the same disease.

The doctors tell him, with time, with patience, with the proper therapy and a healthy drug regimen, he should be able to regain control, take back the life he had before, reassemble all the pieces that got lost along the way.

And Blaine knows, of course he knows, he was an idiot to think Blaine was blind to his pain and preoccupation, to his lies and the way he struggled every minute of every day to reflect some normalcy. So it shouldn't come as such a surprise that one night, when he lies tossing and turning in the bed, which he's gotten slowly used to again, Blaine's there when he shoots up straight, arms clutched around another pillow torn to tatters.

Panic seizes around his throat, his limbs go numb and he flinches backwards, away from Blaine.

"It's okay!" Blaine calls, hands outstretched.

He shakes his head and curls up against the headboard, head ducked and shoulders hunched the way he did when the shells dropped in the middle of the night, made the ground shake and the dirt shake up around him.

"Stay away from me," he says, knees pulled up to his chest, his skin aflame, breathing erratic.

"Sebastian, please." Blaine crawls onto the bed, closer and closer, and he keeps shaking his head, chokes out, "I'll hurt you. I'll hurt you," over and over until there are tears running down his face and defeat washes over him–he's fooling himself, soft touches might not heal him, but he needs Blaine to balm the wounds the doctors had been unable to reach.

"No, you won't," Blaine whispers, "Let me–" he begs, and his breathing eases once Blaine touches his face, pulls him closer and rests his head over his heart, much steadier than his own, much safer and sounder, much saner in all this madness. He curls up against Blaine's chest, too tall and lanky for a boy Blaine's size, but Blaine makes it work, their bodies spooned together like yin and yang.

His tears flow freely, Blaine's words a soothing chorus of "Shh, it's okay," and "I'm here," and "I've got you," while he drags his fingers back and forth through his hair, and he tries to memorize every single inch of this feeling, safe in Blaine's arms.

He doesn't sleep, and neither does Blaine. Come morning he disentangles himself from Blaine's limbs and they sit on opposite sides of the bed, silently waiting for one of them to speak.

"I'll get better," he says. "I promise."

And he swears the air vibrates with the sound of a smile.

"I'll be here," Blaine says.

.

Nothing much changes. They sleep in the same bed, but he makes Blaine promise to keep his distance, even if he has a nightmare–he's scared to death that one day he'll wake up with his hands around Blaine's throat, but even more afraid of what his subconscious would plague him with should he put too much space between them.

It's a precarious balancing act, but one they try to master.

Sometimes at night, when Blaine thinks he's sleeping, he'll feel Blaine's fingers at his back, tracing careful patterns, a promise whispered into his skin, or a kiss planted between his shoulder blades, as if to remind him even in sleep that his prince is there to watch over him.

.

Ever since he was three years old music had been wondrous, a new and exciting plaything for him to discover and learn more about, and it's a skill he cultivated and cherished, a skill his own and one that didn't exist in service to his life at court. He shared it with others, taught Marley to play some of her favorite songs, and it was always there to bring order whenever his mind felt in chaos.

Now, however, no matter how often the doctors advised him to pick up things he loved, the melodies sounded off. He played the pieces perfectly, his fingers moving over the keys the way they had in the past, but no matter how often he tried, the music didn't bring him joy.

He touches a finger to a random key, the high-pitched sound that follows beautiful, but it stirs nothing of those old sentiments inside him.

"You're not going to play?" Blaine asks, sneaking up behind him.

He thinks it should drive him crazy, Blaine stalking him around the residence, watching his every move, but he doesn't. He likes the thought of Blaine looking out for him.

"Why don't you play something for me instead?" he asks in return, unwilling to chase Blaine away with his silence the way Blaine used to do to him.

"My sister was the musical prodigy of the family."

His fingers fall listless off the keys onto his lap, but he manages to ask, "Really?" because part of his therapy meant learning how to communicate again, and if anyone deserves to see him open up, it's Blaine. Blaine's one of the things he loves too, after all.

"She had so much talent," Blaine says. "When she sang the entire house fell silent. Even my uncle."

"Quite a talent."

Blaine smiles. "I wish you could've known her."

He's seen enough photographs to be able to picture Rachel, eyes as dark as Blaine's, dark hair that reached all the way down to her waist, a big smile that matched Blaine's in brightness; he can see the two of them together, Blaine playing the piano while Rachel sang, the entire house carefully listening to the siblings.

"I know her through you."

Blaine stops playing and turns his head, eyes roaming over his face like he's searching for a clue where to take this conversation, whether he's up for it or if Blaine should start easing back. But he's quite comfortable still in Blaine's presence, that hasn't changed. "She wouldn't have liked you."

And miraculously, like the sun breaking through the clouds after a terrible storm, a laugh escapes him. It takes him by surprise, the sudden burst of sunlight inside his chest, and combined with the way Blaine's eyes shine it's almost too much for him to handle. But he takes it all in, Blaine's eyes and his smile, the lilting tease in his voice, lighting cavernous places in his heart he thought lost to the shadows.

He leans closer to Blaine. "She would've warmed up to me."

"Like I did," Blaine whispers.

He pushes in tighter and presses his lips to Blaine's, who freezes at the suddenness of it all, but quickly melts forward against his mouth, parting his lips for him, but he just nips at Blaine's lips, wants to live inside this moment and not let anything bad touch it ever again, protect it from his madness and the numb ice-cold core of his heart that try as he might, refuses to melt. For now.

He doesn't know how long it lasts, he's too acutely aware of the way Blaine's fingers start playing through his hair, body drawn close so he can feel its heat against his own, tongue licking carefully at his lips until they're dizzy with it and have to catch their breath. He keeps his eyes closed, Blaine drawing his lips down his neck before he rests his head on his shoulder–nothing can touch them.

"I want to know you again."

He's not sure which one of them says it.

But yes.

_Yes_.

.

He finds the first letter on Blaine's pillow one morning, after he wakes up from a restless night of barely dreaming. Blaine's gone to visit his parents for a few days after assuring him his absence wouldn't be seen as an insult, and the letter comes as a welcome addition to an empty bed. His name's handwritten on the envelope, the same way it had been on the letters Blaine sent to the front.

He curls up again underneath the sheets and spends the next few hours reading and rereading the letter.

It doesn't say a whole lot, but it outlines all the ways in which Blaine had missed him the year they lost; how struggling with his nightmares had gotten harder without him there, yet it had given him the strength to take hold of his own life and seek help; how he'd never expressed his gratitude for never pushing him for an intimacy he wasn't ready to share, but that he's certain that they will, because there's no other person Blaine could imagine being with.

And a confession, about how Sam had come to mean something to him before Blaine had realized or recognized it, but that nothing had ever happened, on Sam's or Blaine's part, and nothing ever would, because Blaine loved him, and him alone.

The second letter rests against the bathroom mirror.

He smiles involuntarily, too distracted by Blaine's enticing penmanship to shower, or dress, and he spends another two hours sitting on the bathroom floor, reading, smiling, starting to exist a little closer to home again.

.

The letters don't stop, not even after Blaine's return. And he cherishes each one as much as the next.

.

In the mornings he goes out for a run, followed closely by two security guards, the wind in his ears and the steady burn in his legs helping clear his head, his heart racing at an uncontrollable speed, but he manages to will it into submission again. He has breakfast with Marley, Blaine and his mother, and feels more like himself again, like he's there with them rather than stuck somewhere in a past memory.

He still has nightmares and he's still afraid, but he has methods of dealing with them.

And every morning, without fail, Blaine hands him another letter. He walks Blaine out, followed closely by Quinn, and pushes a kiss to his lips after wishing him a good day. Blaine will smile and wish him the same, often stealing another kiss before he can pull himself away completely.

His heart will beat a little faster, uncontrollable and heavy, but he does nothing to tame its curious rhythm.

They go out and have dinner with Blaine's colleagues, they're at important unveilings and state dinners, they're in the front row together at Marley's ballet recitals, and on very special nights they curl up on the couch together, princes, but content to just be husbands.

"Where's Sam?" he asks one night as they're getting ready for bed, pulling back the sheets.

"I let him go."

He blinks. "Because of me?"

Blaine looks up at him. "Yes."

"I don't want you to spread yourself too thin."

"I'm not." Blaine smiles softly. "Quinn's ready to take on some more responsibility."

He lies down in the bed while Blaine fusses with his contacts and stares at his back–he wishes more than ever that things could be the way they were, that he could flip some switch that brought them back where they parted ways and continue on from there. Because right now he's still afraid, afraid all his pain will taint Blaine should he touch him, that his hands will stain his skin blood red, and he doesn't want that. He wants to be that careless boy again learning responsibility the hard way, wants to wrap his arms around Blaine, nightmares or not, and lie entangled in their love for each other.

Blaine deserves that.

He deserves that.

"Come here," he says softly, watching Blaine turn around. He stretches out an arm and holds his hand out to Blaine, who smiles softly. Blaine turns off the nightlight and crawls underneath the sheets, coming closer until a warm hand slides up his torso, resting over his heart.

"If I–" he starts, even though he doesn't really have to say it.

"I know," Blaine says, head resting on his shoulder. "I'll back off."

He kisses Blaine's forehead and wraps his arms around his prince. "I love you, Blaine," he says, "I hope you know that."

Blaine smiles against his skin. "I love you too."

.

Blaine's the one who suggests they get away from things for a while. Summer has hit and the war has come to an end, and his mother not-so-subtly mentioned they maintained a lake house that had been sitting idle for a long time. The villa was secure and lay surrounded by a large lake and a forest, there was a swimming pool and a large terrace, and stables for horses; Blaine's eyes go wide at hearing the description and the goofy hopeful smile directed his way is too impossible to resist.

So they pack up and go, maybe for a few weeks, a few months, maybe even longer, depending on how well it goes.

Their first morning waking up there has Blaine jumping out of bed, because _can't he hear the birds_, _smell the freshly cut grass_, _feel the static electricity in the air that could suggest a storm's coming_. And he can't help but smile because Blaine's enthusiasm has always been infectious.

They spend their first day out on the small pier protruding into the lake; there's a small terrace along with some lounge chairs, and a raft in the water about a hundred yards from the pier. Some days they'll sit by the water for hours, talking or simply enjoying each other's company, they'll swim out to the raft or have lunch on the small terrace. Sometimes they go for a walk in the forest, or ride on horseback, Blaine a much more experienced rider than he is.

And at night they'll sit out on the terrace, upstairs or downstairs depending on what view they want to admire: sundown over the tree line, or the sunlight slowly fading in the reflection of the water.

More often than not they'll tumble into bed lip-locked, having picked up right where they left off seasons ago, their kisses growing more heated with each passing day, his lips venturing down Blaine's neck and torso while Blaine's hands roam hot over every patch of skin they can reach.

But he always makes sure they don't go too far. He's not sure he trusts himself not to take what he wants.

Until one night at the peak of summer Blaine's hands roam further south than they've gone so far, fingers pushing past the waistband of his boxers, further and further and a shiver coursed through him. "Blaine, stop," he says, rolling onto his back, but his body pulses with want. "I'm sorry. I can't."

Blaine pushes up against him, his hard-on pressing against his thigh, kisses to his neck. "Why not?" he asks, fingers deftly tracing down his torso again.

"Blaine," he whines, because he wants to surrender more than anything, he can't express how much it means to him that Blaine's willing to share this intimacy with him alone, but his fear reins louder. "Stop." He catches Blaine's hand around the wrist, but Blaine isn't dissuaded. Blaine sits up and throws a leg over his body, straddling his hips between his thighs, lips nudging at his.

"Blaine, please." His conviction falters as he grabs around Blaine's hips, grinding up against him. He's longed for this and they deserve this, they've both been waiting for so long, for Blaine to open up, to fall in love, for him to heal and his fears to subside. Blaine's tongue pushes past his lips just as his hand slips inside his boxers, fingers folding around his hard-on. "Blaine," he begs, trying to find the strength, voice the reason why he's so afraid.

He cups Blaine's face between his hands and forces him to slow down. "You told me to be gentle," he whispers.

But Blaine shows no hesitation, only a small smile at the memory almost two years old. "Then let me." Blaine chases his lips. "Let me," he begs, "Let me," he whispers, over and over again, until the words lay etched into his skin, until they're coded inside the kisses trailing down his torso.

Yes, yes, he'll let Blaine decide the pace, he'll lie back and trust Blaine with his pleasure, allow him to hold his heart in fragile hands. Blaine takes him in his mouth, working his lips and his tongue around him softly, with the kind of care he's always known them capable off, unspooling his nerves and ridding him of any anxiety, slowly erasing the outlines between their bodies.

He comes with Blaine's name falling from his lips, over and over again, and returns the favor once his breathing has slowed down.

.

A loud bang wakes him up in the middle of the night, and before he's registered the movement he's standing on his feet next to the bed, a conditioned response to the unexpected and dangerous, his heart racing a million miles an hour. He can't find his bearings, and when another bang sounds, lightning illuminating the entire room, he whispers, "Wes," under his breath, and takes off.

He pushes through a door and descends some stairs, feet carrying him without purpose or direction, and once he pushes through a glass door, rain assaults his naked skin, cold drops like tiny pinpricks all over.

Lightning flashes through the sky and he stares at his hands and–

Blood.

There's so much blood.

He closes his eyes and covers his ears, the cacophony of war muted, and he knows it's not real, it can't be real anymore, the war is over and he hasn't seen battle for months, but sometimes his remembrance becomes so starkly real that it feels like he's been transplanted right back into the heat of it, like his therapy has been for naught, like he's worked for nothing all these months.

"Sebastian!" comes his only solace, Blaine his anchor and his guide, his voice of reason and another kind of madness. He turns around, rain blurring his vision, watching Blaine pad over to him in the rain, arms folded around his own body, shaking visibly. "Baby, please, come inside."

He might never be completely free of this, his nightmares could come back in a moment of disregard, but there's one thing that won't ever change again. Blaine will always be there to ground him.

He looks down at his hands, locked in Blaine's before he realizes. "They're clean, Sebastian," Blaine says. "Your hands are clean."

They're not, not right now, there's blood pouring down them, but unlike before he recognizes it's not real, it can't be real, so he dashes forward and kisses Blaine, cups his face without fear of staining his skin, but with the utmost love and respect for having stuck by him all this time.

Blaine gets him inside and out of his clothes, they make love in front of an open fire as the rain on their skin dries and soon glisten with sweat–Blaine breathes his name into his skin, gentle like a secret, and he moves at that same space, clocks himself to Blaine's rhythm, thrusts in and out and has to catch his breath when he stares down at the beautiful boy bared beneath him. He'll never let this go, won't ever let it slip away from him again.

"Why did you do all this?" he asks later, warm and sated, caressing lines up and down Blaine's arm, Blaine's head resting on his chest.

"All this?"

And he realizes the term comprises so much more than Blaine's loyalty and devotion–Blaine married him to save his family from certain ruin, without knowing anything about him; Blaine gave up his home and family and moved his entire life elsewhere, received a title and got put in the spotlight; he opened up after careful coaxing and fell in love with a boy he might never have considered had they not been set up, and then that boy left for war, returning as someone quite different.

"Why did you wait for me?"

Blaine raises himself up and finds his eyes, smiling softly. "You know why."

He smiles, feeling the heat of the fire, but even more so the heat brought on by Blaine's body, his love and care. Blaine has changed him in more ways than he can say–he taught a young and foolish boy that one relationship could bring all the intimacy he'd always been looking for, that time and patience could be virtues, that intimacy entailed more that physicality. And ever since his return Blaine has been reminding him of the man he could be, the prince, the lover, _his_.

_You know why_, Blaine says.

"Because you waited for me."

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

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**if you can, please let me know what you think?**


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